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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28670721">Jackalopes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeli_kindara/pseuds/aeli_kindara'>aeli_kindara</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>SPN Rewatch Codas [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Universe, Character Study, Coda, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e06 Skin, Gen, Impala Conversations, Internalized Homophobia, POV Dean Winchester, Queer Dean Winchester, Season/Series 01, implied past sex work, panty kink reference</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 05:13:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,537</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28670721</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeli_kindara/pseuds/aeli_kindara</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Whatever that creep dredged out of Dean’s screwed-to-hell psyche to spit at his brother, Sam’s been sitting on it for a while. <em>Thinking,</em> with that big Stanford brain of his. About —</p>
<p>Jesus. It could be fucking anything.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Winchester &amp; Sam Winchester, Past Dean/Lee</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>SPN Rewatch Codas [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2101239</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>284</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Jackalopes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So, uh. I started rewatching SPN. I have no idea how often I'll feel moved to write rewatch codas, but it sure happened this time!</p>
<p>Rated M for Dean's implied/referenced sexual history rather than for anything that happens in the fic.</p>
<p>This coda references a past relationship between Dean and Lee Webb (a hunter who was introduced in 15.07). I wrote a ~20k fic about them last year: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/21850270">So Goes the Song</a>. This complies with that, but I don't think you need it for context or anything.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“So,” says Sam, a handful of miles past Oklahoma City, “shifter.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean glances sideways at him. The greens of the eastern plains are turning brown outside the window; pump jacks work on the horizon. Sam looks for a moment like he’s going to say something else, but he doesn’t, so Dean lowers his chin in impatience. “Yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sam clears his throat. It’s one of those annoying habits Dean’s not sure if he had before college or not, like the whole steepling his fingers thing when he’s thinking. It’s hard to imagine the kid Sammy he remembers being that pretentious, but then Sam’s made it plenty clear what he thinks of that kid Sammy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It, uh. Turned into you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he stops again, Dean shoots him an incredulous look. “Yeah, </span>
  <em>
    <span>and?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Dude, I was there, remember?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well — there was — I dunno if you were awake at all. For the, the Vulcan mind meld thing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Slowly, the direction he’s heading sinks in. And —</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Shit.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not fucking hard to connect the dots and see where this trail leads. Whatever that creep dredged out of Dean’s screwed-to-hell psyche to spit at his brother, Sam’s been sitting on it for a while. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thinking,</span>
  </em>
  <span> with that big Stanford brain of his. About —</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jesus. It could be fucking anything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He braces himself. “Spit it out, Sammy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Sam just frowns and looks down at his hands. Under his floppy hair his face looks fucking pained; </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jesus.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Whatever it is, it’s gonna be bad. Dean feels sick.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you ever, uh, wanna be — not a hunter?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Not a hunter.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The hell is that a euphemism for? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not a hunter, not a man.</span>
  </em>
  <span> There’s sweat on the back of Dean’s neck; he can see John Winchester’s face suddenly, grim and judgmental, waiting for whatever Sam’s gonna ask next. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You ever hear those people saying your face looks like a girl’s? You ever let someone push you around and like it; you ever get down on your knees? Do you like dick, Dean, do you like dick even though you really fucking shouldn’t, you ever let a girl truss you up in her own panties and beg her for —</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sam’s looking at him. Expectant. Like that’s all he’s gonna say.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean drags a hand over his face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What, like, did I want to be a rockstar? Sure, Sam. What kid doesn’t?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He lets it hang in the air between them. Prays it’s enough.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sam snorts, drops his chin again. He turns over his phone in his hands. “Yeah. Guess you’re right about that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For two hundred miles, Dean dwells on his near fucking miss.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s a goddamn idiot. Gotten too close to it. Whatever the fuck possessed him the other day; </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sam wears women’s underwear —</span>
  </em>
  <span> as if Sam couldn’t have pivoted around and raised his eyebrows and shot back, </span>
  <em>
    <span>pot, kettle. I am rubber and you’re glue, whatever you say bounces off me —</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They get past Weatherford. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why would it be so bad, anyway? So you like some naughty shit in bed; hell, you’ve bragged about worse. Sam spent half his teenagerhood plugging his ears and singing whenever you got back in from a night with a girl. You wore panties one time and liked it; what red-blooded American male hasn’t? Shit, maybe the shifter told him and he doesn’t even care.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In Sayre, they stop for gas.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Sammy’s a California boy now. College boy. Probably knows all about queer theory and men who wear women’s clothes. He’d probably put on those puppy dog eyes and tell you he accepts you for exactly who you are. He probably has pamphlets to throw at you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s getting late; they pass a truck stop Dean’s been to a few too many times. They press on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>What, and you think college and California prepared him for the rest of you? All that other shit the shifter could have spilled? You think he’d be ready to hear about the times you were low on money; the things you did? You think he’d have some theory about how it’s probably Dad’s fault, or maybe ‘cause you grew up without a mom?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You think the shifter might’ve told him how you’re never sure if Dad doesn’t know, or just doesn’t care?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They get a motel in Amarillo. Everything’s longhorns; the emblem on the flickering sign. The paintings on the walls of their room. The skull over the door, casting long shadows in the slant of the bathroom light.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>What do you think Sam’d say, if you told him about Lee?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean lies back on the mattress, folds his hands behind his head. The popcorn ceiling studies him back. From the bathroom, he can hear Sam swishing and spitting; gargling. Snapping a piece of dental floss.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He’d ask if that’s why you’re so set on getting back to Arizona. He’d ask if you were in love with the guy. He’d ask you a million fucking questions you can’t answer.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean rolls over on his side, facing the wall. He makes sure his breathing is even when Sam comes back out. Makes sure Sam can’t see his face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Footsteps sound on the carpet, then pause. Dean hears a gusty sigh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A moment later, bedsprings creak. Sam turns out the light.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time Dean wakes up, there’s sunrise slanting through the curtains, and Sam’s already gone and come back with breakfast and a couple coffees. He’s got an earnest, attentive face on and watches Dean a little too closely as he tries a donut, nods in grudging approval.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The shifter,” Sam says as Dean takes his first sip of coffee.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean sets his cup down and groans. “Come on, Sam, not this again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The shifter,” Sam insists. “He said you had — dreams of your own. That you didn’t want to be stuck with Dad, not really. I never knew that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>What, so you think all this was a choice?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s not fair; he quashes it. “It’s a monster, Sam. They lie.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sam shakes his head quickly. “It wasn’t a lie.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you want me to say? I used to sing into my hairbrush in the shower and dream of being a big star? I still play air guitar and cry myself to sleep? I’m holding out hope for some grizzled rocker past his prime to discover me in a smoky bar?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mouth is running the fuck away from him; he’s hitting too close to home, again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sam wears women’s underwear.</span>
  </em>
  <span> But Sam doesn’t seem to notice. He just frowns and shakes his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re joking,” he says, “but you </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> be. A rockstar. You could be whatever you want, Dean.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean pulls in a breath to bite back; </span>
  <em>
    <span>What, first my GED and then the world? Only I am standing in my path to success? Whatever line of Stanford bullcrap they’ve been feeding you —</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Only Sam isn’t looking at him like he’s judging. He’s looking like he used to at Christmas; like the time when he gave Dean his necklace. Like Dean hung the fucking moon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unthinking, Dean’s hand rises to grasp the charm. Its horns bite against his palm. Sam’s still watching him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I want,” says Dean, “to get to Bisbee, Arizona.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It breaks the moment; Sam shakes his head, laughs. “What’s so important in Bisbee, anyway?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A case. I told you weeks ago.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, and it’s not like there aren’t a dozen other cases we could check out without driving clear to the Mexican border. What’s so special about this one?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean could lie. He could make something up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He drops the necklace instead and holds out a hand before him, palm flat, thumb extended, like he’s framing a picture. “Jackalopes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sam stares at him for half a moment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then he starts laughing. “Jackalopes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jackalopes,” Dean nods. He feels a grin slide, easy, onto his face. “‘Sides, I got an old friend might be somewhere in those parts. Figure it wouldn’t hurt to take a look around. Plus — jackalopes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sam shakes his head, still laughing. No doubt there’s a lecture on the tip of his tongue: </span>
  <em>
    <span>You know jackalopes aren’t real, Dean. A hunter in Douglas, Wyoming invented them in the 1930s; they’re a taxidermy hoax. I know we chase down urban legends, but that one’s hardly —</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t say it, though. He just shakes his head again. He catches Dean’s eye and grins; he holds out the last donut. “Jackalopes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Amarillo looks dusty in the rearview mirror. I-40 stretches out ahead of them, almost as far as it does behind. Dad might be out there somewhere. He might be in danger, might be hurt; might just not be taking their calls.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lee might be out there too. Dean has a bad habit of misplacing the people he cares about. Sam, at least — Sam’s right here.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>What if the shifter told him something else? What if he’s just keeping it quiet?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Does it fucking matter, if he’s still here?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean flexes his fingers on the Impala’s steering wheel. He fidgets with the rearview mirror so the rising sun won’t blind him. He lets her feel her own power; one long lean on the accelerator, another. He holds out his hand for Sam to pass him his coffee.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he drives.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Again, if you want to read my longer Dean/Lee fic, it's here: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/21850270">So Goes the Song</a>. I have something of a sequel to it in mind — the casefic that's set up in this coda — but, you know, let's not make promises until there are some actual words on a page.</p>
<p>I'm on tumblr at gravelghosts, and this fic is <a href="https://gravelghosts.tumblr.com/post/639938665162899456/jackalopes-15k-m-106-coda-dean-sam-past">here</a>.</p>
<p>Thanks so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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